


sweetest words remain

by weatheredlaw



Series: with all your delights [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Come Eating, Come Sharing, Dreams and Nightmares, Explicit Sexual Content, Flashbacks, Healing, M/M, Mentions of emotional/psychological abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rimming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2020-12-28 15:30:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21138986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: Crowley felt the road unraveling before him was a difficult one.But he wasn’t alone. Of all the troubles that could accost him, solitude, at the very least, was not one of them.or: after a year together, crowley and aziraphale navigate their futures, and crowley works on letting go of the past.





	1. a journal

**Author's Note:**

> someone wouldn't let me write and publish the epilogue for _with all your delights_ because it was, apparently, "too sad". so this story continues.

When he was a boy, his fears could be written down. Thunderstorms and large horses, the clang of swords in the practice yard. As he grew older, those fears became more abstract and faded into the tapestry of his personality. He became afraid of things he couldn’t change. Things that, in retrospect, were not his fault. He feared solitude, above all.

In the pale light of sunrise, Crowley rolled onto his side, reaching out for Aziraphale and finding the other side of the bed cool and empty. Frowning, he sat up and pushed himself out of bed, wandering about the room, calling Aziraphale’s name. The balcony door was slightly ajar, but the breakfast table outside was empty. Crowley pulled on a shirt and pushed the door open further, finding an empty tea cup in a plate, holding down a note.

_Gone to take Warlock to the beach. Will return for breakfast._

Crowley went to the edge of the balcony and looked out. They had come to the Spring Palace a week ago with the intent of getting away. After Crowley had returned from the West, the castle had been a _mess_. The ballroom was still a hospital and Aziraphale was still managing it all with a careful hand. Crowley had watched it all go by in a daze. He slept far later than usual, became exhausted far earlier than normal, and was very little help throughout. Aziraphale had been the one who’d suggested it, and within a day they were leaving the castle.

Crowley slept and Crowley slept and _Crowley slept._ It felt like he couldn’t do it enough. When he was awake, Aziraphale read to him, or chatted away about his plans for a music school. Warlock arrived and Crowley was of no help whatsoever. He felt guilty leaving Aziraphale to take care of him, but exhaustion lived in his bones like a creature biding its time. He assumed, eventually, he would feel better. Away from the castle, tucked into the apricot trees, Crowley felt like, finally, he could heal.

“—have a good time?”

“I did! Will Crowley be down when we’re back?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I can certainly run upstairs and check.”

Crowley glanced down to see Aziraphale and Warlock coming up the hill from the beach. He must have taken him down to watch the fishing boats cast out just after dawn. The chill of the morning had subsided — Aziraphale carried both their coats over his arm and warned Warlock not to run too quickly down the other side of the hill toward the castle.

“You’ll trip if you aren’t careful!” he called, and just happened to look up.

Crowley had always assumed that, eventually, he would be able to look upon Aziraphale and not feel completely struck. That their eyes could meet and Crowley would not feel the same way he’d felt that spring, a year before, nerves alight and heart aflutter. He always thought that, someday, things would settle.

He had never been more wrong.

“Well good morning,” Aziraphale called up to him.

Crowley held up the note. “Gone fishing, have you?”

“Hardly. He wanted to watch the boats come in. Someone had to go along. He’ll be running off with them, if you’re not careful.”

“Lucky you were up and about, then.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Are you will enough to join us for breakfast? I think he misses you.”

“I’ll be down in a minute,” Crowley said, and turned to go back inside.

“_Crowley!_”

Crowley stopped and looked back down. “Something you need, angel?”

Aziraphale smiled. Shook his head. “No,” he said. “I only wanted one more look.”

* * *

Crowley’s uncle had never liked taking time away from the castle and his work, but just after a winter, he would often bring Crowley to the Spring Palace. His uncle only seemed truly happy when he was sailing, and though he would spend several weeks at a time pretending Crowley didn’t exist, he was dead set on teaching him. It was the one place where Crowley felt like they were a family. He would close his eyes sometimes and pretend, make play that this was all out of love.

“Is sailing so important?” Warlock asked, clambering from the dock onto the boat. “Why can’t I paint roses with Aziraphale?”

“You’ll be with Aziraphale in the afternoon,” Crowley said. “This morning you’re stuck with me.”

Warlock grinned. “I don’t mind.” He watched while Crowley pulled up the anchor and moved them out onto the waves. “Aziraphale says you love sailing more than anything.”

Crowley nodded. “I do.”

“Except Aziraphale.”

Crowley glanced up and smiled. “Yes,” he said, “except Aziraphale.”

Warlock nodded and looked out over the sea. Crowley had always used his visits to talk with him about what his duties might be as a king, or to simply let him run about the palace. They had never really _spoken._ Warlock had been too young then, but he was twelve now. He would be thirteen in the fall. Aziraphale had urged Crowley to let Warlock be a child, but wasn’t it fair to treat him with a bit more deference than that? He would be king someday, would he not?

“Are you happy here?” Crowley asked. “You can return home whenever you’d like.”

“I’m happy. I wish you felt better.”

Crowley sighed. “I’m trying.”

“It’s alright. Mother says you fought for us. That I should be respectful.”

“That’s a tough task.”

Warlock shrugged. He adjusted a few things when Crowley asked and turned the collar of his coat against the wind.

“You’re different,” he said quietly.

Crowley didn’t answer right away. He found a good spot to lower the anchor and dug out the picnic basket he’d had the chef pack for them. Warlock sat down and watched. “How so?” Crowley eventually asked.

“Softer, since he came here.”

Crowley paused. “...Was I ever cruel to you?”

“No. But you didn’t teach me things like this. And we never had picnics.”

“I’m sorry if I brought you here and you weren’t happy. It’s my fault for not listening better, before.”

“Aziraphale makes you a better listener?” Warlock asked.

Crowley nodded. “He makes me better at a great many things.”

Warlock grinned and moved closer to the basket. “I’m glad you have him, then. No one should be alone.” He took the sandwich Crowley offered him. “Especially not a king.”

* * *

Each afternoon, Warlock had lessons with Aziraphale. They often covered the sort of things Crowley had no real talent for — namely music, or courtly manners. His uncle had never put much importance on which fork to use or how to hold a tea cup. Crowley was around to be silent, and to remind people that Lucius’s legacy did not end with him. Whether he dined appropriately hardly mattered. As a boy, Crowley ate alone more often than not.

Aziraphale played piano and violin, the former more often. Warlock seemed overly interested in neither, but he wanted to make Aziraphale happy.

“Sit up straighter,” Aziraphale said gently, and Warlock did. “I’d just like to say, you’re sounding wonderful. Your other instructor must be very talented.”

“He’s fine. He’s nothing like you.”

“Those sorts of things will go straight to my head, my boy.” He glanced over at Crowley and smiled. “I think His Majesty would be _very_ happy to hear the piece you mastered yesterday. Don’t you?”

Warlock looked at Crowley expectantly, and Crowley nodded. “Of course.” He leaned forward and Warlock grinned.

Raphael had played the piano, and had tried to teach Crowley a few chords here and there, but Lucius was staunchly against his nephew learning any sort of music whatsoever. Crowley never really understood why. Warlock seemed to enjoy it — his fingers danced across the keys with some amount of caution, but it was obvious that it made him happy. Beside him, Aziraphale smiled and let him make mistakes. He corrected himself quickly enough and ended with a joyful flourish.

Crowley stood and clapped. “_Bravo!_ Excellent work.”

“You liked it?”

“I _adored_ it.”

Warlock looked at Aziraphale expectantly. “May I be excused before dinner? I wanted to play with Ghost.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Of course. Dinner is served in an hour, don’t be late.” Warlock nodded and lept from the piano bench, dashing from the room to the stairs. Aziraphale turned back to the piano and Crowley came to sit beside him. “He’s getting very good.”

“You’re a wonderful teacher. Bet you could even teach me.”

“You have the hands for it,” Aziraphale murmured. He lifted one in his own and pressed his lips to Crowley’s knuckles. “How are you feeling today? You slept rather late.”

“Better,” Crowley said, though he wasn’t entirely sure that was true. Sometimes the exhaustion felt like it had become a part of him. Like he would have to live with it for the rest of his life — his constant companion.

Aziraphale shifted closer. “We have an hour before dinner,” he said softly. “Would you like to lie down?”

As soon as the thought was spoken, Crowley realized it was really all he _wanted._ He nodded and stood, keeping Aziraphale’s hand in his and pulling him out of the music room and up the stairs. There was a frantic thrumming under his skin, a whisper of _need_. To rest, yes, but the touch of Aziraphale’s lips on his knuckles still burned and as soon as the doors to their rooms were shut, Crowley pressed him against it.

“_Crowley_—”

He growled, “Don’t toy with me, angel,” and kissed Aziraphale’s neck, hands rucking up his tunic and reaching for the ties of his breeches. “It’s as you said.” Crowley pulled back. “We’ve an hour before dinner.”

“A bit more, if you don’t mind being late,” Aziraphale said, breathless. “_Crowley._” He took Crowley’s face in his hands and kissed him, urging him through to the bedroom. They stumbled over an armchair and an empty trunk on the way. Crowley laughed in spite of himself, even more so when his back hit their bed and Aziraphale looked down at him with _so much_ fondness.

Crowley carded his fingers through Aziraphale’s curls. “You looked beautiful, you know. This morning, when you were coming in from the beach.” Aziraphale ducked his head, but Crowley put a finger under his chin and lifted his gaze. “I was so certain I would get used to this.”

“To what?”

Crowley laughed. “_You._ Being _loved_ by you.”

“Aren’t you, yet?”

“No,” Crowley said, kissing him softly. “Not in the slightest.”

Aziraphale moaned against Crowley’s lips, opening up against him. For a few moments, that’s all it was — the slip-slide of lips and tongue, soft whispers and sweet touches. Aziraphale pulled away and Crowley chased him down, trying to get more, but Aziraphale pressed him firmly against the bed.

“It pleases you then.”

“More than anything I have ever known.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I’m so glad.” He bent down and kissed Crowley’s jaw, trailing his lips up to the shell of his ear. “Will you lie back and let me have you?”

Crowley moaned. “You want to ride me?”

“I’ve wanted nothing else for some time.”

Crowley nodded quickly and they moved off of one another, shedding their clothes, pausing every few seconds to touch, to kiss, to _taste._ Aziraphale moved to arrange a few things by the bedside table, while Crowley sat on the edge and watched. He had certainly been blessed, he thought. More than once over.

Aziraphale finally turned to him. “Lie back, my love.”

“Do you want me to—”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “I’ll do it myself.”

Crowley groaned and did as he was told. He leaned against the pillows as Aziraphale climbed up and straddled his waist. Crowley watched him take one of the bottles of oil and coat his fingers liberally. He finally reached back and Crowley saw his expression change as he pressed one of his own fingers into himself. Aziraphale had a great many skills like this that Crowley tried not to think too hard on. He only knew that he had them, and that they were used for making love to _him_, and he was happy with that.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured. “I haven’t had you inside me in so _long._”

“I know. I’m sorry, it’s all my fault, I—”

Aziraphale shushed him. “Stop that. You are recovering. And I don’t need this to know you love me.”

Crowley sometimes _choked_ on affection. He was lucky at that moment Aziraphale gave a soft cry as he added another finger and started fucking himself open. Crowley swallowed thickly. He’d been a terrible, selfish lover since the war. That first time he’d given Aziraphale everything he had, but the weariness of battle had come on slowly and then all at once. Crowley had no energy for it. Aziraphale did what he could, but he clearly wanted more, no matter how patient, how _bloody_ saintly he could be.

“_Touch me_,” Aziraphale gasped, and Crowley nodded, reaching out to stroke Aziraphale’s cock. He swiped the wet tip with his thumb and brought it to his mouth, licking it clean. Aziraphale moaned and Crowley reached out again and began to stroke him in time with his own thrusts. “Slower,” Aziraphale managed. “I want to come...come on your cock.”

“_Angel._ You’ll kill me, you know that?”

Aziraphale laughed. “Oh, not just yet.”

“Not done with me?”

“I doubt I—” Aziraphale moaned and Crowley knew he was adding another fingers. “I will _ever_ be done with you.” He worked at himself a few more minutes before nodding. “I’m ready, just—”

Crowley nodded, fumbling for the bottle by the bed and slicking his own cock. Aziraphale reached for it, pressing the tip at his entrance before he began to sink down. Crowley moaned as he felt the tight heat of Aziraphale surround him. “_Aziraphale_—”

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Aziraphale said, “if I need to stop.”

“Never, _never _too much.”

“I have been dreaming of you. The nights when we don’t touch, I close my eyes and remember the times we did.”

“Perfect, so perfect there—”

“You feel incredible, my love. Oh, Crowley. My love, my _king._”

That _struck him_, the way it _always_ did. Crowley sat up and wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, hands pressed flat against his back as he looked up. “_Say it again._”

Aziraphale grinned, a madman who knew _exactly_ what he was doing. “What?”

“You bloody well _know_ what.”

Aziraphale slowed. He lifted up and, finally, _finally_, took all of Crowley. “_My king._”

“_Fuck._”

“You are, aren’t you? My _king_, before anyone else.”

“No others—”

Aziraphale laughed. “I have told you a thousand times.” He was moving in earnest now, fucking himself on Crowley’s cock and there was _joy_ in it. “You are the only king I have ever had. And there will never be another. You are my first and my last.”

Crowley groaned, burying his face against Aziraphale’s chest. He didn’t really _need_ to hear these things. He knew them, deeply and fiercely. But when Aziraphale said it, when Aziraphale reminded him — _I am yours, you are mine, we belong to one another_ — Crowley felt thirty years of loneliness bury themselves a bit deeper in the past, and the future always seemed just a bit brighter.

“Are you close?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley nodded. “Will you come inside me?”

“You want that?”

“Oh, very much,” Aziraphale managed. He was such a lovely color, flushed all along his chest and up the column of his throat. A beautiful pink that Crowley wished he knew the real name of. He could feel his climax welling up, and it only took a few more thrusts for him to come, filling Aziraphale and letting go with a moan, falling onto his back again.

Aziraphale took his own cock in hand and gave it a few firm strokes before he came, too, painting his stomach and chest. Crowley watched in a daze — it’d been some weeks since he’d come this way, and Aziraphale was still seated on him, clenching every so often. Crowley hissed as he pulled off. By now, Aziraphale didn’t turn away when they were finished. He knew what Crowley wanted before Crowley even moved.

Crowley was completely spent, and he opened his mouth to say something, but Aziraphale was urging him to lay lower on the pillows and before Crowley could really stop him, Aziraphale was moving up toward him.

“Is this alright?”

“_Christ_, angel.”

“Yes or no, my dear.”

“Yes, _yes,_ it’s bloody alright,” Crowley snapped as Aziraphale laughed and moved up to sit just _so_ over Crowley’s face so he could press his tongue _up_ and into him, moaning as he tasted his own come and swallowed it all.

Aziraphale gripped the headboard and held himself steady, a constant stream of _yes, fuck, my love, so good, so wonderful, so fucking perfect_ coming from his mouth as Crowley ate him out.

Eventually he pulled away and they were collapsed in bed, side by side, staring at the ceiling, joyfully fucked out and exhausted.

“_We’ve got an hour before dinner_,” Crowley muttered. “As if you didn’t know what you were doing.”

“I’m quite skilled at this game, if you’ll remember correctly.”

“Oh.” Crowley rolled over and put an arm around Aziraphale’s waist, tugging him close and burying his face into the crook of his neck. “I remember.”

Crowley certainly fell asleep. He woke an hour later to discover that they were _quite_ late for dinner and Warlock spent most of the evening chastising them for their tardiness.

“Hardly becoming of a king,” he said, in a tone that had Crowley choking on his wine, while Aziraphale laughed into his potatoes.

“_You_,” Crowley said, “are absolutely right.” He pointed with his fork. “Won’t happen again.”

* * *

Crowley didn’t dream about the winter. Not often. He was quite sure this was because of Aziraphale, who radiated comfort and love whenever they were close, and was a sure fire way to stave off even the worst of the nightmares.

But sometimes — _sometimes_…

Sometimes he woke with the cold in his bones or the taste of blood in his mouth. His arrow wound ached and roused him from sleep, and he felt like the snow was still melting on the tip of his nose, still coating his lashes. He woke with winter on his tongue and names in his throat and with a gasp he would rise up, gripping the sheets in his hands and breathing heavy.

Sometimes he shouted, and Aziraphale woke with a start, reaching for him, soothing the memories from his brow. Usually, though, the dreams were silent, and so was Crowley.

He sat up, staring into the blank whiteness of snowfall for more than a few seconds before he blinked and it was gone. Aziraphale shifted beside him and sighed, burrowing further under the sheets. Crowley swallowed. His mouth was sticky-dry, so he rose and poured a glass of water, drinking from it deeply.

The air outside was cool, but pleasantly so. Nothing like the chill he was still shaking off, and from here he could listen to the sound he had so sorely missed during the war — the ocean, crashing against the shore, reminding him of his place in this great wide world.

His uncle had loved the sea. Each time they sailed together, he would look at so fondly that a younger Crowley would grow envious. “How beautiful is she?” his uncle would ask, reaching down to dip his fingers in the water. They swam no matter how cold and, sometimes, Lucius even laughed. Crowley had learned from an early age how to perfect his dive. It always pleased his uncle, no matter how many times he did it. _Perfect form, perfect execution._ What Crowley would have given to hear that about any number of other things he did. He hoped he gave Warlock enough. He hoped he was kind enough.

He hoped he was making the right choice.

“Crowley?” He turned. Aziraphale had opened the balcony doors and Crowley hadn’t even heard him. “What are you doing out here? It’s _late._”

“Nothing,” he said quietly. “Just...couldn’t sleep.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Did you have another dream?” Crowley raised a brow and turned back to face the sea. “I’ve told you, there are things we could do for that, things you could take—”

“I am not interested in banishing my dreams, Aziraphale. I need them. They are a _reminder._”

“A reminder of _what?_”

“What I have endured.” Good _lord_, he sounded like Lucius. _Pain is just a part of life. Pain is just what we feel as we grow against the chains of what we haven’t yet accomplished._

Aziraphale sighed. “You’re _impossible_ sometimes, do you know that?”

“It’s been said.”

Aziraphale came and looped their arms together, resting his head on Crowley’s shoulder. “What was it this time?”

“Same as ever. Snow. Cold. Blood.” He shrugged. “The usual.”

Aziraphale hummed. “I didn’t even feel you get out of bed.”

“I’ve become quite practiced at it.”

“_Crowley._” Aziraphale pulled back. “Next time _wake _me.”

Crowley glanced at him. “You seemed so peaceful. I didn’t want to bother you.”

“_You_ will never be a bother to me.” Aziraphale reached up and cupped Crowley’s face in his hands and kissed him. “I will always love you, I will always be here for you. You understand that, don’t you?”

Crowley stared at him. Of course he _knew_ this. Of course, on a very fundamental level, he _understood_ this. But the terrible, wicked part of him wanted to snarl, _but you will, you will grow tired of me, you will come to unlove me because no matter how far from him I get, I know that all roads lead to one place. _

“Yes,” he said. “Of course I know.”

Aziraphale seemed satisfied. “Good,” he said, and took Crowley’s hand. “Now come back to bed. I’m sure I can think of more than a _few_ things to help you unwind.”

Crowley laughed and followed him. “Yes, angel, I’m sure you can.”

* * *

Crowley didn’t look like his uncle. He looked like his mother, a woman he’d never known. There were no portraits of Lucius in the castle, or at any of the palaces. Crowley had made the decision a year after he’d been crowned, when people seemed to understand that he was _not_ his uncle, that his reign would be different.

He had all the portraits removed, including the only one he and his uncle ever sat for together. That one was buried deep under the castle in Virgil, and it’d be a cold day in _hell_ before he let someone hang that on his walls.

Truthfully, Crowley kept nothing of his uncle’s around, save for his crown, and even _that_ he was reluctant to wear. He had hardly ever been seen with it. Aziraphale had asked, once, before they’d grown close, why he didn’t wear it, but Crowley didn’t have more of an answer beyond, “Just really isn’t my style.” Aziraphale had let it go, and never brought it up again.

The only things belong to his uncle he really kept were his sailboats — and his studies.

Lucius had a study in every palace, a place where he could bring visitors back to smoke, a place where he kept his favorite books. These were the places where he was truly himself, where Crowley was only allowed to be with permission. More often than not, he was in _trouble_ when he was in those studies, but on occasion he’d been allowed to do his school work there, or read a book of his uncle’s choosing. When he’d been crowned, the first thing he’d done was lock them up and have Madame Tracy hide away the keys.

At the Spring Palace, no one seemed to know where the keys _were_, and Crowley didn’t want to make a big show of it — he had no intention of talking to Aziraphale about this, the entire thing didn’t make _sense_ — but eventually someone was able to locate them. Crowley snatched them up and went to the east wing of the palace, to the double doors that were always shut, always locked, but still always _there_.

When he turned the lock, the noise snapped through him, and he stepped back.

How many times in his childhood had he heard that sound? The sound of his uncle closing himself off after a perfectly wonderful day of sailing and swimming. _Go finish your reading, don’t bother me until dinner._

Crowley sighed. He was a grown man. He was a _king._ He had no reason to be afraid of locks and keys and doors, but —

_If he could see you now,_ he thought, and pushed the door open. Crowley had spent several hours cataloguing all the ways Lucius might have been disappointed in him. He certainly would not have approved of Crowley’s choice in advisors, nor the way he dressed. He wouldn’t have approved of Crowley going to war with his army and he _certainly_ wouldn’t have approved of the way he treated Warlock. But, of all the choices Crowley had made, he thought Lucius might have been disappointed in Aziraphale most of all.

Love was the hallmark of a weak man. A too-sensitive man. A man who would let the world take advantage of him.

Crowley sighed and shut the door behind him. The room still smelled of cigars and his uncle’s cologne. The scent was painfully familiar, and Crowley had to steady himself a moment before he stepped further in. This specific study he’d only been in a few times as a boy. Lucius was always happiest at the Spring Palace, and so Crowley often enjoyed a certain amount of freedom from his anger. Here, there were no dungeons to go down to, few guests Crowley could insult with his questions and rash defense of his homeland. It had taken years to grind him down into the boy who would be crowned king. Longer still to come back from it.

With a sigh, Crowley sat down at his uncle’s desk chair. He’d never done this before, and the action left him feeling _giddy_, as though he’d gotten away with something. He kept expecting the door to fly open, for Lucius to catch him sitting there and send him running. But this was _his_ chair now. This was _Crowley’s _study. He could sit where he wanted. He could _do_ whatever he wanted.

He could _love_ Aziraphale, _love_ Warlock, and his uncle couldn’t say a _damned _thing.

Crowley leaned back in the chair and inspected the desk. He’d never really given it much thought before, but it was quite an interesting spread. There was a map of the south trapped under an ancient piece of glass that was in desperate need of dusting. He could even see a few yellowing envelopes, correspondence his uncle had never gotten back to, trapped in time. Crowley took one of the letters and opened it, finding a message from a very young Queen Esther inside — _I would hope you and I might be able to get along, but if you’re going to continue to insult my family, I’m afraid there isn’t much hope for us, Lucius_. He laughed. Just like his uncle to stave off any hope of an alliance by insulting a bloody _queen._

There were many things — a dried quill, an ink pot that had been left open, several books and even a few Crowley recognized as having been given to him to read some years ago.

And there, nestled just under the stack of books, was a leather bound journal that Crowley did _not_ recognize.

“What are _you?_” he asked aloud, and freed it from the pile.

* * *

“Your behavior last night was inappropriate.”

“They were rude! They insulted your kingdom, my _home!_ What was I supposed to say—”

“You,” Lucius looked at Crowley and he froze, staring at his uncle, stiff with fear, “were supposed to stay quiet. As you have been asked a thousand times.”

Crowley swallowed. “I’m sorry, uncle.”

Lucius raised a brow. “I am willing to overlook the transgression. You might assume that, because I am a king, I can say whatever I feel. But I don’t.” He stood from his desk and went to the window. A storm was battering the castle. Crowley should have been bound for the Summer Palace, out of his uncle’s hair while he negotiated with a few lords from the East, but the rains had prevented this. Last night he’d made a fool of himself, but this...a _lecture_ — it was far less than Crowley had been led to believe he deserved.

“A king tells no one what he feels. He keeps this a secret, Anthony. Do you understand?”

“Yes, uncle.”

“You must learn to control your emotions. Outbursts like the one from last night will no longer be tolerated.”

“Of course, uncle. My apologies.”

“Don’t apologize,” Lucius snapped. “Just _don’t_ do it again. Now go to your room. You’ll leave tomorrow whether it stops raining or not. I don’t want to see you until September.”

Crowley nodded and calmly left his uncle’s study. When he was finally in his room, he shut the door and bolted it behind him. He’d never been so grateful to be banished in his life.

* * *

Crowley slammed the journal on the coffee table. “This is absolutely _ridiculous._”

Aziraphale sighed. “Darling, I’m _sure_ it is, but _what_ exactly, are you—”

“Do you know how many times he told me what a _waste_ of time journaling would be? Raphael suggested it when I was a boy, suggested it to my uncle’s _face_ and he was laughed out of his office. Nearly lost his bloody _job._”

“Raphael was your tutor.”

“Yes! Keep up, Aziraphale, for Christ’s sake.” Crowley point at the journal. “He never approved, never thought I should have any sort of means to _express_ myself because_ a king never tells a soul what he is feeling!_ And look! Look here—” Crowley picked up the book and read from it. “_I miss my darling sister, Lucrezia, more than I can bear. The boy looks just as she did, red hair and golden eyes, and I cannot decide whether to love or hate him for it. It’s hardly any fault of his._” He threw the book down again.

Aziraphale raised a brow and reached for the book. “So this belonged to your uncle.” He flipped through it as Crowley collapsed into one of the armchairs. “You’re _doing_ it again.”

“Doing _what?_”

“Leaning into the melodrama. I don’t see what’s so terrible about this. So your uncle was a hypocrite? Does that change things?”

“Yes!” Crowley sat up. “It changes a great number of things!”

“What, exactly?”

Crowley sighed. “Well, it...it changes the fact that he...that he _told _me never to...that everything he said was...that _I_ was never—”

Aziraphale stared at him. Crowley scowled.

“_Fine_,” he muttered. “It changes nothing. But still! It’s the bloody _principle_ of the matter.” He reached forward and snatched the journal back. “He says I have _potential._ He says it a dozen times, and this is just from the last few years of his life. I’m sure there are more! I’m sure there are a dozen more of these ridiculous things and if I don’t find them, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Aziraphale leaned back against the sofa. He was _far_ too calm, considering. “Throw a fit? Well, you’ve already _done_ that. You’ll burn them? You’re certainly welcome to. But I suspect what you’ll _actually_ do is take all this pent up energy you can’t get rid of, and you’ll obsess and obsess and _obsess_ until you find a way to validate all the terrible things he ever did to you and, eventually, push everyone who loves you away.” Aziraphale raised a brow. “Does that sound about right, _your Majesty?_”

Now, it was Crowley’s turn to stare. He really had no idea what to say, though he recognized the places where Aziraphale was _right._ He _did_ have too much energy — there were so many things he wanted to do and his body couldn’t, so his brain was working overtime. He hadn’t noticed until just now, but of course Aziraphale could see it first. Of course Aziraphale could see right through him and know exactly what he was going to do.

“...I should burn this, shouldn’t I?”

“I think you should get rid of it, yes.”

Crowley looked down at the journal in his hands. It was ridiculous that, even now, his uncle could push him this far.

Aziraphale sat up. “Come here,” he said softly. Crowley lowered himself to the floor by Aziraphale’s feet and laid his head in his lap. He closed his eyes as cool fingers began to card through his hair. “You are nothing like him, you know.”

“No. That’s the thing, angel. I _do_ know. I know all the ways I am like him.”

“Fine, I’ll agree to that. But don’t you think that, in the ways that truly matter, you _are _your own man?”

Crowley glanced up. “...I suppose,” he said quietly. He closed his eyes again. “You’d never have lasted, in my uncle’s court.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Oh, I don’t know about that. Might have surprised you.”

Crowley reached up and took Aziraphale’s hand. “You already have. In every way.” Aziraphale hummed and Crowley sighed. “It’s the boy,” he said.

“What does Warlock have to do with this?”

“I need to speak to him. I need to know.”

“Know what?”

Crowley pushed himself up, still holding Aziraphale’s hand. He took the other and brought them both to his lips. “That he wants this. That I haven’t forced him into something. I can’t remember my uncle ever caring if I wanted to be king. There was never a choice.”

“You were a _child_.”

“As were you.”

Aziraphale sputtered. “_Well._ I should hardly think _that _matters. I was never forced into anything, I really don’t think—” He stopped. Looked away. “If you think you need to speak with him, I’m sure he would be open to it.”

“Oh, angel. Don’t be cross.”

“I’m _not_,” Aziraphale snapped, before he softened and leaned back against the sofa again. “It’s only...it’s just that I never argued, you know. I never made a fuss. I lived a very good life, but you...you _are_ right. I’ve lived a life without choices.” Aziraphale stood and helped Crowley to his feet. “It wasn’t until you that I started making my own. I’m grateful.”

“And I’m grateful for you,” Crowley said. He cupped Aziraphale’s cheek and kissed him softly. “Come to bed?” he asked. “I’ve just become _terribly_ exhausted.”

“Oh, _have_ you?” Aziraphale asked, and followed him.

* * *

“We’re spending the _whole_ day together?” Warlock asked. “Just you and me?”

“Is that so bad?”

Warlock shrugged. “No. We just never do that.” He kicked at an apricot that had fallen in the orchard. In two weeks, they’d be back here, picking fruit with the villagers.

“It won’t be the whole day,” Crowley said. “I just...wanted to spend time with you. Talk with you.”

“About what?”

Crowley sighed and they stopped near the middle of the orchard. “Remember the other day? I asked if I’d ever been cruel to you.” Warlock nodded. “Well I...I wanted to know because when I was your age…” Crowley trailed off, unsure of how to say it. “My uncle was very unkind. He believed in a certain way of bringing me up.”

“Did he hit you?”

Crowley looked at him sharply. “No. Never. Has someone hit you?” Warlock shook his head. “Right. Right, of course.” He ran a hand through his hair. “No, my uncle never hit me. He never had to.”

“You were afraid of him.”

“Yes.”

“Mother says he was a terrible king. She says you’re much better.”

Crowley, not for the first time in his life, felt a wave of affection for Lady Dowling. “That’s kind of her to say.” They continued walking. “But the reason I wanted to spend today with you is...well it’s really because when I was a boy no one ever did anything like this with me. There were a few exceptions, of course, but no one ever wanted to know what I was thinking, or what I really _wanted._ And I have to know, Warlock—” Crowley stopped and turned to him. “I’ve placed you in a terrible position, I feel.”

Warlock frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’ve chosen this path for you and what if...what if you don’t _want_ it? It’s lonely, sometimes, being a king.”

“But you have Aziraphale. I would have my family.”

Crowley shook his head. “There is a part of it that will always keep you separate. No matter how much you are loved. And I promise you—” He put a hand on Warlock’s shoulder. “You _are_ loved.”

Warlock sighed. “I think you’re a bit too much in your head on this one.”

Crowley pulled his hand back. “...What?”

Warlock shrugged. “I dunno. It just seems like if I wasn’t happy, I’d have told you. It’s not like I’m afraid to tell you things.”

“Well...well _yes_, but—”

“Look, you’re not scary. You’ve _never_ been scary. You’re the least scary person I’ve ever met. _Aziraphale_ is more frightening than you, have you seen him with a sword?” Crowley nodded. “I’m only saying that if I don’t want to do this, I’m going to tell you.”

“No matter what.”

Warlock nodded. “Right. No matter what.” He paused. “Do you...think I’m afraid of you?”

“Well, _no._”

“Are you worried I will be?”

Crowley sighed. “Yes. Constantly.”

Warlock reached for Crowley’s hand. “You’ve been good to me, and my family. If you’re worried about becoming the sort of king your uncle was...I don’t think you need to. I think, _maybe_...you should let that go.” Warlock smiled and let go of his hand, continuing through the orchard. “Besides,” he added, “I’m rather excited to be king.” He walked on, chattering away about all the things he planned to do.

Crowley followed behind, wondering when all the world had moved on without him.

* * *

Aziraphale leaned back against the other side of the tub and sighed. “Well what did you _expect_ him to say? That he thinks you’re some sort of monster?”

“I don’t _know._”

“Because he’s right, you know. You have to be the least threatening person I’ve ever met.”

Crowley scowled. “I am the _Serpent King_ of the _South_, if you’ll remember correctly.”

“Oh, _yes._” Aziraphale splashed him. “Terribly frightening, my love. I quake with _fear._”

Crowley sighed and tipped his head back against his side of the tub, fingers carding through the water. He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of rosemary and lavender. “I suppose I always just assumed…”

“That you would be as bad as him?” Crowley nodded. Aziraphale sighed and stood from the water, and Crowley opened one eye to watch as he climbed out and took a towel from the hook nearby. “It seems you spent so much work trying _not_ to be him, you wound up becoming very soft, my dear.”

“_Soft_,” Crowley spat. “I am not _soft._”

“You adopted your godson a _cat_. I had to pry the creature from your _terrifying_ grasp.” He finished drying off before holding the other towel out for Crowley, who reluctantly rose from the lukewarm water and let Aziraphale towel him dry. “I’m very proud of you, you know.”

“Are you, angel?”

“Mmhm.” Aziraphale smiled and kissed him. “It takes a lot to confront your fears. What you did with Warlock today was very important.”

“Hmph.”

“It was!” Aziraphale stepped back.

Crowley, towel wrapped around his shoulders, looked around the room. The journal was still sitting on the coffee table. There was a small fire going in the fireplace to stave off the chill of early spring. Crowley, without any further thought, picked up the book and chucked it into the flames.

“Crowley!” He turned. Aziraphale was just getting dressed, but he stopped and went to the fire. “I _assumed_ you were going to think about it! Are you sure—”

Crowley grabbed him. The towel fell from his shoulders and onto the floor. Aziraphale moaned softly and leaned into Crowley’s grasp, kissing him fiercely. Crowley was unsure of so many things in his life, but this — the way he _loved_ Aziraphale, the way he knew that he _was_ loved by Aziraphale — he had no doubts about that.

Aziraphale pulled back, reaching up to cup Crowley’s cheek. “Come to bed with me, my love.”

“Gladly, angel.”

Aziraphale laughed and took Crowley’s hand, leading him to the bed. “Let me make love to you. May I?”

“_Christ_, Aziraphale, of course you can.”

“Wonderful.” Aziraphale gave him a gentle push and Crowley went willingly, falling back into the sheets with a grin. Aziraphale crawled after him, kissing him hungrily, running his hands over Crowley’s arms and chest. Crowley moaned, arching into his touch, feeling his stiffening cock brush against Aziraphale’s. “I’m going to make a mess of you, your Majesty.”

“Please do.”

“On your knees, then,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley quickly complied. He faced the headboard eagerly, while Aziraphale rose behind him, hands squeezing the swell of Crowley’s ass and trailing down to his thighs. Crowley closed his eyes, letting his head fall between his shoulders. He went somewhere, thinking of how much he wanted it to be summer, how the further they got from winter, really, the closer they came to it all over again.

“—going, I’d prefer if you stayed here with me,” Aziraphale said softly, and slid one now-slick finger into Crowley.

“_Ah_—” Crowley lifted his head. “Whassat?”

“You’re somewhere else,” Aziraphale murmured, and kissed the small of his back.

“Sorry. Can’t...can’t help it.” Crowley began to rock back and forth on his knees, trying to get that warm press of Aziraphale in him further. “_Fuck_, angel.”

“We’ve barely started.”

“Haven’t...haven’t had you in me in _ages._”

“Yes, I know. I’m not sure how long I’ll last.”

Crowley laughed. “Ha!” He glanced over his shoulder. “You expect me to buy that line?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Worth a shot,” he said, and added another finger.

For several minutes, Aziraphale fucked him open on his fingers. At one point, he pulled them out and Crowley nearly _wailed_ at the feeling of Aziraphale’s tongue sliding into him, moaning against his hole. He pulled it out and pushed his fingers back in easily, pressing deeper and deeper, until he struck Crowley in a place that had him shouting down the walls, crying out Aziraphale’s name.

“Please, _please_—”

“Please what?”

“Fuck me. Please fuck me, make a mess of me, just let me _have you_.”

Aziraphale sighed and withdrew his fingers. “Anything you desire, my love.” He bent low and drew his tongue against Crowley’s hole one last time before replacing it with his oil-slick cock. With a groan, he sank in, and Crowley threw his head back, bowed his back, and cried out. His own cock was dripping, now, and he took it in hand and began to stroke it.

“Stop,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley did. “Don’t touch yourself.”

“_Angel._”

“In good time,” Aziraphale managed, and began to fuck Crowley harder, swifter, grabbing his hips in either hand and pulling him back on his cock. Crowley might have called the pace punishing if he didn’t know how much _love_ there was in it. And _oh_ — how much _love_ could he feel? Aziraphale didn’t touch him like he was going to break, but he was careful in the ways Crowley had always craved. He held him, embraced him, made _love_ to him like it mattered. It was something Crowley hadn’t realized he needed until it occurred, until Aziraphale seemed to grab him and shout, _I am going to love you with purpose. I am going to love you with intent._

He struck Crowley _deep_, and Crowley _sobbed_ with love and relief. “_Aziraphale, Aziraphale_—”

“_Crowley_, you—” Aziraphale gasped and stilled inside him, catching his breath. “_Oh_, I’m close. I’m so close—”

“Make a mess of me,” Crowley gasped. “Like you promised, like you said—” He moaned as Aziraphale pulled out and pushed him onto his back, and he couldn’t stop as Aziraphale took his own cock in hand and stroked it, coming on Crowley’s stomach and chest with a cry. Crowley wasn’t far behind him — he only needed to thrust into his own hand a few times before he was coming, his spend mixing with Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale hovered above him, eyes closed and panting. He braced himself with one hand on the headboard, still stroking his cock. “_Fuck_,” he muttered, and Crowley _preened._

“Wear you out, angel?”

Aziraphale opened his eyes and laughed. “Oh, you _wicked_ thing,” he muttered, and leaned down, dragging his tongue through the mess on Crowley’s stomach. He kissed some into Crowley’s mouth and moaned softly. When Crowley was clean, Aziraphale sighed and tucked himself into the crook of his arm and pulled up the blanket. “Are you satisfied, my dear?”

Crowley hummed. “Mmm. Quite.”

Aziraphale shifted, wrapping one arm around Crowley’s waist. “I know it will take time for you to let go of these thoughts. But just know that, no matter _what_, I’m going to be right _here_.”

“God, I love you,” Crowley said, and reached over, tipping Aziraphale’s chin up and kissing him deeply. “My _guardian _angel.”

Aziraphale laughed again. “Whatever you need.” He buried his face against Crowley’s shoulder and, after a few moments, was asleep.

Crowley lie awake for some time after, stroking Aziraphale’s arm. The fire still burned, and the pages of his uncle’s journal burned with it. Crowley had no regrets. He knew it was time to let go of the past, to move forward with resolve. He’d wallowed in it for too long, afraid of what he might become, even as it never came to pass.

Aziraphale shifted beside him and rolled over, snoring softly. Crowley kissed the back of his neck and carefully got out of bed. He dressed and snuck out of the room, carefully making his way to his uncle’s study.

For so long he’d been so _afraid_ of this place, but now...now it was just another room. A room that, technically, belonged to him. The first thing to go would be the awful curtains, he decided. And he’d have them come in and clean in the morning. He’d bring Aziraphale here, too, and make it a space where everyone felt welcome.

Crowley felt the road unraveling before him was a difficult one.

But he wasn’t alone. Of all the troubles that could accost him, solitude, at the very least, was not one of them.

* * *

For the first time in weeks he went to bed — and he didn’t dream of winter.


	2. a crown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> crowley works out some issues. he's going to be doing a lot of that.

Crowley had never entertained visiting nobility before. He’d hardly entertained the _thought_ of it, and it had certainly never happened when his uncle had been king. As he sat, fairly shell-shocked that Queen Esther had even _agreed_, his thoughts traveled back to the letter he’d found in his uncle’s study at the Summer Palace, her hastily written note chastising Lucius for his manners. Her handwriting had not changed, though her letter to Crowley was quite different:

_I would of course be delighted to visit your homeland. That you would extend an invitation at all is honor enough, Anthony, and I look forward to knowing more of you and the South once I arrive._

“Esther is very kind,” Aziraphale said that evening, glancing over the letter with a smile. “Much like her brother.”

“Joseph,” Crowley murmured, remembering the story Abraham and his son had told last fall. “I wonder if he’ll join her.”

“Oh, I hope so,” Aziraphale said, folding the letter up and handing it back to Crowley where he sat at his writing desk. “You’d really enjoy him.”

Crowley took the letter and then Aziraphale’s hand, pulling him down for a kiss. “A talent for chess, you said.” Another kiss. “I’ve none myself.”

“Neither have I, though I do give it a good Northern try every so often.”

Crowley laughed against his mouth. “What on _earth_ is a _Northern try?_”

“Pretend to know what you’re doing, blame the rules when you lose of course.” Aziraphale pulled back. “We should prepare the castle for her arrival. Good cleaning, perhaps find some of those missing portraits…”

“Portraits make things cluttered,” Crowley said quickly. “But I agree the place could use a bit of sprucing up.” He stood and kissed Aziraphale’s forehead. “I’ll have Madame Tracy take care of it. Perhaps you could send word to the kitchen about what to cook.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale pressed his lips together. “There is...one other thing. Something _you_ could do.”

Crowley nodded. “Anything, angel.”

Aziraphale smiled. “You mean that?”

“Of course.”

Aziraphale stepped close, sliding his hands up Crowley’s chest and onto his shoulders, toying with the collar of his tunic. He smiled. “Find your crown?”

Crowley stilled. “...My crown.”

“Yes. I’ve never seen you wear it. I know you said it wasn’t really your _style_, but when you’re entertaining royalty it’s...well it’s _precisely_ the style. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Crowley swallowed. “I’m...not sure. You think she’d care?”

“Well it’s really not _about _her. Would you have cared if Abraham wore his when you first met?”

“Of course not.”

“But he _did._”

Crowley frowned. “Yes, well. Things are different in the North. You’ve said so yourself.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Crowley. My love—”

“No,” Crowley said quickly, and stepped back. “You’re...no. I told you, I don’t wear it.”

“Crowley _you_ are a king! A king wears a crown, I...I don’t know how else to explain it to you.”

Crowley scowled. “Haven’t I told you? Haven’t I _shown you_, over and over? I am like no other king, and I do not intend to be. Ever.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “...Fine. But could you...good lord, could you at least _find it?_”

“I _know _where it is,” Crowley snapped.

“Oh? Do tell, then.”

Crowley paused. “...Well. It’s, ah. It’s down in the...downstairs, more than likely, in the...in—” He stopped. Aziraphale was trying very hard not to smile, and failing miserably. “Well _I _don’t keep track of it!” Crowley turned and went to sit back at his desk, hunching over Esther’s letter and reading it again.

Aziraphale came behind him, resting his chin on Crowley’s shoulder. “I am not trying to punish you or make you into someone you are not, my love. I only think you’d look...very _royal._ And handsome.” He kissed his cheek. “I’m going to go speak with the kitchen. Please sit up straight.”

Crowley scowled after him as he left, but righted his posture all the same.

* * *

“Your highness.” Crowley looked up from the book he wasn’t reading. Madame Tracy smiled thinly. “Your uncle has requested your presence,” she said gently.

“...Of course.” Crowley closed the book and set it aside. He followed her out of the library and through the halls of the castle. His uncle had been moved to a smaller room, attended by his personal physician, visited often by his advisors. They were crowded outside the door, murmuring quietly to one another. As Crowley approached, they grew quiet. He met their gazes one by one, and each of them understood: _long live he, the future king._

“Just through here,” Madame Tracy said. She pushed open the door to the room and ushered him in. Crowley stood very still until the door snapped shut behind him, and his uncle coughed.

“Come here, boy.”

Crowley swallowed. He went. There was a chair beside the bed and he lowered himself into it. “Uncle. I’ve prayed every day for your recovery—”

“Don’t waste your breath,” Lucius muttered, coughing again. “Not on God and not on me.” He reached out a trembling hand for the goblet on the table beside his bed, nearly knocking it over. Crowley quickly took it, helping him sit up and drink. When he was satisfied, Lucius said, “There are things we must discuss.”

“Of course, uncle.” Crowley placed the goblet back on the table.

“The first—” Lucius reached for a roll of paper and handed it to him. “This is the deed to the home in Mayfair. Your father’s home.” He held it out. Crowley stared. “_Take it_, boy!” Crowley snatched it from him. “It was left to me, to be given to you on your eighteenth birthday. Unfortunately, I will not live to see that, so the home is yours.” He leaned back into his pillows again with a groan. “Do with it as you wish.”

“...Thank you, uncle.”

“It’s not a gift, Anthony. It’s your inheritance. The only thing that good for nothing father of yours left you. He died—”

“Poor,” Crowley muttered, “I know.”

“And look at his progeny. Nearly a king. He cursed my name, you know. When I named you my heir.”

“I remember the story, uncle.”

Lucius continued. “Said no son of his needed a _crown_ to know he had value in this world. Bloody idiot. He and my sister.” Crowley looked up sharply. Lucius didn’t often disparage his sister. He had, Crowley believed, well and truly loved her. That she had married for love, into a noble family with little land or coin to their name, had infuriated him.

“The crown,” Lucius said quietly. “I’ve locked it away. Not to be worn before your coronation. And if you’ve any sense, to be worn every bloody day after.”

“Why?”

Lucius narrowed his eyes. “...So many _questions._ You just remember, when you’re the king, there _are_ no questions. You are the answer to every single one of them. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“Good. The crown is your lifeline. The crown is your identity. Have you seen me in public without it?”

“No, uncle.”

“Then follow my example. Do as I did.” Lucius coughed again. “I’m really not long for this world, Anthony. You’ll stay here. Until I’m gone.”

Crowley sighed and set the roll of parchment aside. “Of course I will, uncle.”

Lucius nodded. “There is no one in this world you can trust but family. Remember that.”

Crowley flinched. _But you are the only family I have left,_ he nearly said. Lucius grabbed his hand and squeezed so tight, he almost cried out.

“Not long,” Lucius murmured. “Not long now.”

Crowley took a trembling breath. He hated his uncle. Every ounce of blood in his body wanted to boil over at the sight of him. But suddenly, _suddenly_ — he was going to be king. And he was going to be _alone. _Crowley gripped his uncle’s hand back just as tight and said, “Please don’t go.”

“You can’t bargain with death, Anthony.”

“I’m not ready. I can’t be king, the crown, it won’t fit—”

“It will always fit, because you were born to wear it.”

Crowley brushed angry tears from his cheeks. “You can’t _leave_ me like this! I am not _ready_ to be king!”

“Raise your voice at me again—”

“Or you’ll do _what?_” Crowley snarled and wrenched his hand away. “Send me away? Despise me? _Punish me?_ There is nothing you could do to me now you haven’t done already! I can’t do this,” he said again. “It’s too soon.”

Lucius laughed. “Ah, but you _are_ ready,” he said, beginning to cough again. “There’s so much _fire_ in you. And they’ll fear you,” he added, “I know they will.”

“Who?”

Lucius grinned. “_Everyone._”

“They won’t,” Crowley said. “Because I won’t be like you. I will _never_ be like you.”

Lucius closed his eyes. “Well,” he murmured. “I do think it’s too late for _that._”

Crowley sat by his uncle’s deathbed and watched him die. Checked again and again. Sat with his body until the sun began to set. He went to the door and opened it, staring at the faces of Lucius’ advisors.

“The king is dead,” he said quietly, and walked past them, through the halls of the castle, and back to his room.

His uncle was gone. Anthony Crowley, son of a worthless nobleman, was now king of all the South.

Crowley closed his eyes and tried to shake off the feeling of being cursed.

* * *

He knew exactly where his crown was. If he wasn’t going to _wear_ it everyday, Crowley was certainly going to know where it was being kept. And if Aziraphale had really thought about it, he probably could have found it himself.

Crowley’s writing desk was not off limits to Aziraphale, but there was a gentle, unspoken arrangement between them: the space was Crowley’s. Aziraphale rarely touched it, and he did not sit at it. He didn’t open the drawers or touch the papers on top of it. He certainly didn’t ask what was locked in the largest, bottom drawer of the desk, same as Crowley did not ask him what he wrote in his journals. These were not _secrets_. They were parts of their lives allowed to be kept to themselves.

The bottom drawer was where Crowley kept the last things his uncle had given him: the deed to the estate in Mayfair, and the crown of the Southern king. He had worn it only once, in almost thirty years, the day of his coronation. He remembered it well — the feasting and the music, the wine that sat, untouched, in his goblet. Madame Tracy had helped him sneak away, and this was where he’d gone, the room that had been his uncle’s, which was now suddenly his.

Crowley had been grateful that night his uncle had not died there.

He’d locked himself in, gone to the desk, and pulled out this wooden box, placing the crown beside the deed and shutting the lid. He put the box in the drawer and locked it. He very rarely opened it. In fact, the very last time he had was when he’d received word of Aziraphale’s arrival, just over a year before. Crowley had no intention of wearing it then, but he’d felt the need to look at it, to read over the deed written in his father’s handwriting, to ground himself in both worlds.

_To my son I leave the Crowley Estate, and all that resides within it. May he return honor and glory to our family name. _

_It will always fit, because you were born to wear it._

Now, he looked on them both again, holding the crown in his hand. Simple and plain, like most things in the South. But _gold._ Beautiful, perfect gold.

“...It was here all along.”

Crowley jumped and _dropped_ the bloody thing. He swore, bending down to pick it up.

Aziraphale came over and stood cautiously a few feet away from him. “I...think I owe you an apology, my dear.”

“...Whatever for?”

“I thought about what I said, yesterday. About why I wanted you to wear it. About what it might mean. And I suppose I was really just...thinking about how it might look to another royal, to see you without your crown. I still struggle with my Northern sensibilities here, you see. I wasn’t thinking of _you._ I wasn’t thinking of your past or why you might not _want _it. I was only thinking—” He stopped. Crowley had stood, setting aside the crown, and taken Aziraphale’s face in his hands, kissing him soundly. Aziraphale moaned, winding his arms around Crowley’s waist and pulling him close.

After a moment, Crowley pulled back. “You were saying, angel?”

Aziraphale looked distraught. “Forgive me?”

Crowley smiled, kissing him until he felt those perfect, soft lips curl upwards against his own. “Nothing to forgive, my love.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Well, you don’t have to wear it when she arrives if you don’t _want_ to.”

“I had never intended on doing anything _but_.”

“Oh, you’re awful.” Aziraphale wriggled out of Crowley’s grasp. “What else is in the box then? Unless it’s another secret.”

Crowley laughed. “No. Just...something I’ve never known what to do with. Perhaps you can help.” He handed Aziraphale the deed.

“What is…” Aziraphale unrolled it and read it softly to himself. “An estate? Where is Mayfair?”

“More central. My father’s family lived there. It’s where I was born, where they died.” Aziraphale looked up. “The Crowley Estate.”

“The Crowleys were nobility.”

“Yes. Not well _known_ nobility. My mother married my father for love, which Lucius was always rather spiteful about. He’d intended for her to marry one of his advisors, a man who is most certainly dead now. He was much older than her even then. But she met my father one Spring and they fell in love. The Crowleys had only this estate and the little bit of land around it to their name. My father was the last one left alive. His land was meant to be given to me when I came of age, but Lucius died before then. It’s really the only decent thing he ever did by me.”

Aziraphale rolled up the deed and set it back in the box. “Have you ever been?”

Crowley nodded. “Once.”

“And?”

“It was run down.”

“...That’s it?”

Crowley sighed. “I don’t know angel, it’s where my parents _died_. I wasn’t terribly interested in being there in the first place, but I felt like I had to see it. It’s not really much to write home about.”

“Your father speaks highly of you.”

Crowley nodded. “He had great hopes for me, Lucius said. Didn’t want me to be king. He wanted me to bring prosperity to the family name.”

“How did they die?”

“Illness. Something terrible that took them fairly swiftly, my uncle always said. I was ill when he came to fetch me. They nursed me back to health at the Winter Palace.”

“Another place I haven’t been.”

“It’s not as lovely as the others.” Crowley sighed and moved to put the crown back in the box.

“_Wait._”

He glanced over his shoulder. “What is it, angel?”

“Won’t you...won’t you wear it? Once? Just for me.”

Crowley glanced at the crown in his hand. “It’s not very impressive.”

“Yes, well. I don’t think it’s the _crown _that makes a king impressive, my dear.” He reached for Crowley’s other hand. “You know that quite well by now, I should think.”

Crowley smiled. It couldn’t _hurt_. And he wasn’t wearing it to prove anything. He’d once stolen it and put it on as a boy when his uncle had been away. Madame Tracy’s predecessor had caught him, but she hadn’t told on him. _Our secret_, she’d said, the way she did when she snuck him sweets after dinner.

“Our secret,” Aziraphale suddenly said, and Crowley looked at him. “I won’t tell a soul.”

“Oh, _angel._” Crowley kissed him, pushing the crown into his hands. “You do it.”

“..._What?_”

“Crown me, angel.” Crowley smiled against his lips. “Crown me as your own. As your _king._”

Aziraphale looked to be in a daze, his hands trembling. “I’ve...I’ve never—”

“Do it,” Crowley said, and slowly knelt in front of him. “I’d be honored if you would.”

They stared at one another. Crowley’s heart hammered in his chest and he watched as Aziraphale raised the crown above him and lowered it onto Crowley’s head. Crowley smiled. “This is the part where you tell me to—_mph!_” Aziraphale _yanked_ him to his feet, kissing him fiercely. Crowley nearly fell over, but Aziraphale held him close, one hand behind his head, the other wrapped around his waist. He pressed his lips over Crowley’s jaw and down his neck, nipping the skin there.

“Do you like it?” Crowley asked.

“_Yes_,” Aziraphale said, his voice trembling. Crowley had wanted to tease, but he could feel the adoration come from Aziraphale in waves, and it nearly knocked him over. “Yes, I like it. You trust me with so much, you love me _so much_…”

“I do,” Crowley murmured. “I love you, I love you, I _love_ you…” He trailed off, moaning and tipping his head back as Aziraphale kissed more of him, slid his hands under Crowley’s tunic and scraped blunt nails over his sides.

“Let me have you,” Aziraphale said, “please?”

“God, _yes_—” Crowley kissed him again and let Aziraphale pull him across the room. It was late afternoon, the sun was still fairly high, the balcony doors stood wide open — and it felt like the world stood still. Crowley yanked off his tunic and felt it jostle his crown, nearly knocking it off his head. He reached up to discard it, to focus on undressing Aziraphale —

“...Leave it on.”

Crowley blinked through the haze. “What?”

“I…” Aziraphale took in the sight of him, bare chested and his crown sitting crooked on his head. He worried his bottom lip, running his hands over Crowley’s chest and shoulders. “I want to see you wear the crown. _Just_ the crown,” he added. Crowley nearly _choked_. “...Is that alright?”

Crowley nodded.

“Good. Get undressed for me then,” Aziraphale said. He looked up at the crown hungrily, loosening the laces of his breeches. Crowley’s mouth watered, he wanted Aziraphale’s cock in him, wherever he could have it. He wanted to hold him tight and close and never let him go, never let him out of his sight. Crowley wanted and he wanted and he _wanted._ Aziraphale undressed himself as Crowley, naked, clambered into bed, hands twitching and aching to _touch._

“Touch me?” he asked. Aziraphale nodded, settling between Crowley’s legs, kissing him while he slowly curled his fingers around Crowley’s cock and began to stroke. “_Oh_…oh, yes…”

Aziraphale sighed, easing Crowley further back against the pillows, running his other hand down his side. “Whatever reason you won’t wear it, I’m glad you will for me.”

“Anything, Aziraphale. Anything for you.”

Aziraphale drew back. “You know that doesn’t have to be true, don’t you?”

“I…”

“I will love you no matter what.” He squeezed the base of Crowley’s cock and Crowley moaned, his head falling back. Aziraphale gripped his hip and kept stroking him, faster now. “Tell me what you want?” he asked. “Tell me how to make you feel good.”

“But you know, better than anyone—”

“I want to hear you, though.” Aziraphale’s gaze flitted up to the crown, back to Crowley’s face. “You’ve done what I wanted, and you have _no_ idea how it...what I’m _feeling_ right now, it’s…” He closed his eyes. Crowley glanced down and saw the swell of his cock, the slick head of it flush against him. He reached down and swiped his thumb over the tip, bringing it up to his own mouth and sucking it clean. Aziraphale moaned. “_Crowley._”

“Your mouth,” he said. “Open me up with your mouth, your fingers…”

“God, _yes._” Aziraphale kissed him once more and immediately began to move down the length of Crowley’s body, kissing him as he went. He paused to suck on the head of his cock and Crowley cried out, arching off the bed. Aziraphale looked pleased with himself.

“Monster,” Crowley muttered.

Aziraphale sighed. “Am I?” He draped Crowley’s legs over his shoulders and pressed a kiss to the bend of his knee, his inner thigh. “This is fine?”

“Yes, angel, fuck, just—” Crowley stilled as Aziraphale spread his cheeks apart and drew his tongue against Crowley’s hole. “_Oh_—” He gripped the sheets. “Slow, _slow_.”

“Of course, my love.” He pressed his tongue against Crowley again, holding fast as Crowley writhed above him. Every pass of his tongue made Crowley’s hole wetter and wetter, opened him up steadily and by degrees. Eventually Aziraphale sat up and moved to reach for the oil by the bed, but Crowley got it first, shoving it into his hand wordlessly. Aziraphale smiled and slicked one of his fingers, sliding it into Crowley before he moved back down to tongue him open. He alternated — a finger, his tongue, a finger, his tongue — until his pressed a second finger into Crowley, stretching him further.

“_Angel!_”

“You’re going to be so ready for me,” Aziraphale said, looking up as he lazily fucked Crowley open with his fingers.

“_Your mouth_,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale ducked his head again, pulling his fingers out and sliding his tongue inside. Deeper now, Crowley could _feel it_. He moaned and rolled his hips, trying to get more. He felt Aziraphale hum against him and it shook its way up his body, going straight to his cock which was _impossibly_ hard, red and leaking against his stomach.

Aziraphale pulled back and pressed in three fingers now, curling them up inside Crowley. He leaned forward and kissed the base of Crowley’s cock, slid his tongue along his sac and sucked.

“Oh, _fuck._”

“What now? More of this? My tongue—”

“_Yes, yes please_—”

Aziraphale hungrily dove back down, lapping at Crowley’s hole, his tongue sliding along one of his fingers as Crowley pleaded for more, babbled uselessly, _wailed_ —

“Fuck me,” he begged, “give me your cock, let me—”

“Yes, god yes, Crowley—” Aziraphale surged up, kissing him. His mouth and chin were slick with spit and oil. Crowley wiped him clean, cupping his cheek.

“So beautiful. Will you make love to me? Let me feel all of you?” Aziraphale nodded. His cock, slick with oil, brushed against Crowley’s hole and they both moaned, together. Crowley kissed him again. “Come on, you. Come on—” He hissed as Aziraphale slid into him, slow and perfect. “_Oh_, that’s good. You did so _good_, angel. Can you feel?”

“I can, _oh_—” He stilled, closing his eyes. “This is alright? You want it like this?”

“Slow,” Crowley said. “Take it slow, I’ve nowhere to be.”

Aziraphale laughed. “You are the _king_. You have everywhere to be.”

“Not right now.” Crowley slid his fingers through Aziraphale’s curls. “I only need to be here. With you.”

Aziraphale sighed and began fucking him again, each thrust a slow and careful thing. Crowley indulged in every slide of his cock, every soft noise and desperate whimper. Aziraphale trembled in Crowley’s arms. “You feel wonderful, you feel perfect.”

“Harder?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale nodded. He pulled out, almost all the way, and rocked back into Crowley, _hard._ “_Yes!_ Aziraphale, again—” Aziraphale did it again. Slow and hard, slow and hard, _slow and hard_ — “Don’t stop,” Crowley pleaded, “don’t ever stop.”

“If I could I never would.”

“Always, always inside me, always making me feel this way.”

“Yes, _yes_, so perfect, so _good._”

“Aziraphale—”

“I’m going to come, do you—”

“_In my mouth_,” Crowley said, “come in my mouth.”

“Yes, love, of course.” Aziraphale moved inside him a few more times before he pulled out. He sat up on his knees and pulled Crowley with him. Crowley opened his mouth and Aziraphale pushed his cock against his lips, stroking until he came with a groan, spilling over Crowley’s tongue. Crowley closed his eyes, swallowing what he could, feeling the rest slipping down his chin as he fisted his own cock, feeling his own spend hit his stomach and chest.

He fell back with a groan, looking up at Aziraphale breathing heavy.

“Crowley, _good lord._”

Crowley laughed. “Like that, angel?”

Aziraphale sank down between Crowley’s legs and nodded. “May I?”

“Mmhm.” Crowley sighed, watching Aziraphale’s tongue slide against his stomach, licking him clean. He carded his fingers through his hair, feeling boneless and content. His crown was still on his head, almost in _spite_ of the two of them. Crowley reached up and pulled it off and, just as he finished, placed it on Aziraphale’s head.

“_Crowley!_” He reached up to pull it off, but Crowley grabbed his wrist. “Crowley, I cannot—”

“But you can,” Crowley said. “It’s just something you wear on your head.”

“It’s your _crown_, it’s for a _king_—”

“Everyone’s got a king. Everyone has me. Where’s mine, why can I have one of my own?”

Aziraphale looked _stricken_, but Crowley had to admit — he looked _gorgeous_. Crowley’s come was smeared across his cheek, Crowley’s _crown_ was on his head and he was _so_...perfect. Just like that. Crowley wiped the mess from his face and smiled.

“Beautiful.”

“I am not a _king_, my dear.”

Crowley laughed. “Oh? But you’re wearing a crown! That certain seems very kingly to me.”

Aziraphale shook his head and took it off. “You’re terrible.”

“I’m _yours._”

“What if I decide I don’t want you?” Aziraphale asked, setting the crown aside and falling into the crook of Crowley’s arm. “What then?”

“Then I’ll know the world will have ended, angel. Because you’ve promised to keep me forever.”

“Yes, I suppose I have.” Aziraphale kissed his cheek. “What a perfectly lovely afternoon. I can’t believe we’re spending it in bed.”

“_Spending_ it?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, and kissed him again. “You didn’t think we were done, did you?”

Crowley laughed and covered his face with his hands. “I do love you,” he said. He turned his head, catching a glimpse of the crown on the bedside table.

It was so _simple._ Deceptively simple. He remembered how lovely Abraham’s crown had been, with its gems and pearl inlay. He wondered what it meant to him, if he ever looked at it and felt the burden of the North balanced on his head.

“...Crowley?” Crowley turned and Aziraphale frowned. “My dear. Why are you crying?”

“Am I?” Aziraphale nodded. Crowley scrubbed a hand over his face. It came away damp. “No idea,” he murmured.

“Was it all too much? I know sometimes it can be—”

“No, angel. It’s not that.” He pulled Aziraphale closer. “I think...I think it’s just...I kept it hidden because it always felt like I’d been cursed with it. And if I didn’t wear it, then I wouldn’t have to bear my uncle’s legacy along with it.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize—”

“But you...you didn’t _tell me_ to wear it. You _asked._ And the way you looked at me—”

Aziraphale flushed, embarrassed. “_Well._ I don’t know if that was really—”

“But it was!” Crowley sat up and looked down at him. “Aziraphale, that _thing _has haunted me since my uncle’s death. And then you just...you look at me. And it’s different.”

“...That’s all?”

“Well...well, _no._ I still hate it.”

“Ah.”

“But...less, now. Much less.”

Aziraphale sighed and stroked a hand down his back. “Well that’s good, I suppose. I certainly have no problem, ah. _Helping._ If that’s what will do the trick.”

“Wicked angel.” Crowley leaned down and kissed him. “Did a younger you have _terrible_ fantasies about this?”

“...Yes, actually.”

“Ha! You’re joking.”

Aziraphale scowled. “You think as a young man who knew what his very limited destiny was that I _didn’t_ fantasize about a king in his crown?” Crowley shrugged. “Well I _did._ Not often, but.”

Crowley laughed again and stretched out next to him. He pushed the damp curls from Aziraphale’s forehead and kissed his shoulder. “I’ll wear it.”

“Mmm, certainly not all the time, but every so often—”

“No,” Crowley said. “For Esther. When she arrives.”

Aziraphale raised a brow. “Do you mean that?” Crowley nodded. “You don’t have to.”

“I know.” He closed his eyes and buried his nose against Aziraphale’s neck. “But I want to.”

* * *

Esther arrived late in the afternoon on a Sunday, and fashionably so. She brought a handful of servants and three advisors with her, as well as her younger brother Joseph. Aziraphale had said she and Crowley had a lot in common, but would not elaborate.

“When you meet her,” he said, “I think you’ll understand.”

As she reclined on the sofa in Crowley’s study and yanked off her crown before kicking off her shoes, he suddenly understood.

“_Christ,_” she muttered, “I wish I could wear pants.”

“You can,” Crowley said. “I certainly wouldn’t say a word against it.”

She looked at him and grinned. “I’m not surprised. The _rebel_ king, through and through.”

Crowley nearly choked on his scotch. “_Rebel king?_”

“Running off into battle with your soldiers? Taking a Northern consort as your lover and making him _prince regent?_ My dear Anthony, you are a rebel of the highest degree. At least as far as my advisors are concerned. They’re _not_ excited to be here.”

“If that’s all that qualifies me as a rebel then it’s a title I’ll happily claim.”

Esther laughed and filled her glass again. “It’s better than the nickname they have for Abraham, the pour soul.”

“Oh?”

“Mmhm. Lord _Stick up his Arse._”

This time, Crowley _did_ choke. “_Fuck._”

“I can’t believe he invited you to visit. Was it _terribly_ drab? The North pretends they know what culture is, but they’ve not a bloody clue. Hunting and _gossip_ isn’t culture, it’s a detriment to their entire society.” She points. “You’re _lucky_,” she added, “because Aziraphale is the best of the lot.”

Crowley nodded. “I know.”

Esther smiled. “I’m sure you do,” she said softly.

Crowley shifted in his armchair. “I...I invited you because I wanted to thank you properly. You sent your doctors to help my people on a _whim_, and I—”

Esther sat up, spilling on herself. “_Damn._” She looked at him. “I didn’t send my doctors to you on a whim, Anthony.” She curled her legs under her. Crowley _adored_ her. “I sent them to you because Aziraphale asked. And what Aziraphale asks from me, he receives.” She finished her second drink and fumbled the glass on the end table. “I don’t drink much,” she muttered, pulling her hair from its intricate braids. Crowley leaned forward.

“Is it because of Joseph?”

“The drinking? No, it’s because I have two and become a bloody font of _secrets._” Crowley raised a brow. “_Oh_, you mean why I sent my physicians.” He nodded. “Aziraphale was always kind to Joseph, even when it was a detriment to him.”

“A detriment?”

“Joseph isn’t very popular in the North. Well, Thomas likes him, Abraham’s youngest. They’re about the same age. It would have made _Aziraphale _very popular if he’d chosen to tease my brother, turn his back on him. Instead, he was kind. And so, what Aziraphale wants, Aziraphale _gets._” She ran a hand through her hair. “My brother is the most important person in the world to me. I do not forgive those who hurt him. And I do not forget those who care for him any easier.”

* * *

Crowley _loved_ Esther. He remembered his uncle had said about her once that she was her father’s daughter through and through.

“What does that mean, uncle?”

“A threat to her own monarchy,” he’d snarled. Lucius had not cared for the East. Esther had sent him a sword, once, and he very nearly threw it into the sea. Crowley showed it to her, on her second day in the South, and she nearly fell over laughing.

“Oh _god_. I sent this as a joke, I remember now. I’d been queen for...a _month_, maybe. And he’d already insulted me! I sent a note along with this, told him if he had any sense he’d shove this where the sun didn’t shine.” She touched the sword fondly. “They used this in my coronation. I wanted it out of my sight, so I gave it to Lucius.”

“Did you hate every second of yours, too?”

“My coronation?” Crowley nodded. “God, _yes._ It was terrible. My father had been dead for three _days._” She handed the sword back. Crowley tucked it into the trunk Lucius had always kept it in and offered her his arm, leading them out of his uncle’s old library. “I was miserable and I was _terrified._ Mother kept saying, _don’t let them see you cry, you can never let them see you cry_ and I spent the entire thing shaking with the effort of it.” Esther sighed. “Now I cry all the time, of course. Alone, anyway. Still can’t cry in front of anyone, but.”

“You may cry in front of me,” Crowley said softly, “if your composure allows it.”

Esther looked up at him and smiled. “Same as I may wear pants?” He nodded. “Oh, _men_,” she said. “You never really understand, do you?”

“...What?”

She laughed. “You! You wear what you like, obviously—” She pointed to his tunic. “Simple and _Southern_, that is. But my people, they expect me to embody my station. Elegant and delicate, you see. I mean it was a struggle to be allowed to wear _this._” She pointed to her dress. Crowley remembered the sheer _volume_ of Queen Rachel’s gowns in the North. Esther’s were smaller, with far fewer layers. The design was intricate, but Crowley could walk alongside her with ease. “My father chose to make me queen over my brother, and I have spent my entire life since that decision was made trying to prove myself worthy of it.” She looked at him. “I feel like, to some extent, you understand.”

“I understand better what you _mean._ I hadn’t...thought of things that way.”

“Yes, most people simply believe Eastern succession promotes the first born, but that’s only because I am the first female born into my family in over a century. No. Joseph was supposed to be king, but my father had spent too long preparing me, and I think he knew Joseph would be too..._soft_, for this world.”

“And you?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Crowley held her arm a bit tighter as they stepped out of the castle and into the rose garden.

“It’s beautiful here.”

“Aziraphale has worked hard on it, though even my uncle felt the castle grounds should be maintained, to some extent.”

She sighed. “Were you ever in love before Aziraphale?”

“No.”

“It’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“Sometimes when I’m very anxious, or when I’m in the middle of something I absolutely do _not_ want to be doing, I just...close my eyes, and I remember the moment I fell in love. Let it sort of course through me, you know? And I can feel everything melt away.”

They reached one of the tables in the garden and sat across from one another, just as someone brought out a tray of tea. “Who did you fall in love with?” Crowley asked.

Esther smiled and spooned an unconscionable about of sugar into her tea. “Wouldn’t _you_ like to know?”

* * *

Crowley leaned back against the tub and let Aziraphale card his fingers through his hair. “You were right, you know. When you said I’d enjoy Esther.”

“Was I?” Crowley could hear Aziraphale’s smile. “I’m very glad. Lean forward.” Crowley did, and Aziraphale poured water over his head to wash out the soap. “You need a trim, my love.”

“Later,” Crowley murmured. He was exhausted. “I enjoyed Joseph, too.”

“Wonderful.” He leaned forward and kissed the back of Crowley’s neck. “How does your crown weigh now, these days?”

Crowley laughed. “Lighter, angel. Much lighter.”

“I’m glad.”

“Esther told me how much she...how she struggled with her own. With all of it.”

“I can hardly imagine.”

Crowley glanced over his shoulder. “I don’t know. I think maybe you understand better than most.”

“Perhaps.” Aziraphale stood and picked up a towel. Crowley stepped out of the tub and into his arms. “I think it’s important you met her. And Abraham.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. You told me once that your uncle didn’t trust anyone. That he raised _you_ to be the same.” Crowley nodded. “I think it’s a mark of great trust that you went to the North, and that you asked Esther to come here. I know it’s a bit late, but you’re...breaking this _cycle._ It’s important for you. And Warlock.” Aziraphale smiled and kissed him. “I’m very proud of you.”

“...Thank you.” Crowley held him close for a moment. It was...invigorating, in a way. He felt renewed. Knowing Esther made him feel better about the future, _his_ future. He was leaving behind a legacy of goodwill for Warlock, for his entire nation. Years from now, no one would be afraid of the South, of his past. They would look back on it fondly, travel into his homeland _eagerly._

“Crowley?” Aziraphale cupped his cheek. “Are you alright?”

Crowley smiled. “Yes,” he said. “I’m absolutely _fine._”

* * *

He sat at the table and looked out on the feast, feeling queasier with each passing second. The crown was heavy. His clothes were heavy. They weighed on him like an extra body, an extra self he didn’t want. He drank from his goblet and nearly choked. The food on his plate hadn’t been touched.

Crowley was _king_. No one had asked if he wanted it. No one had asked if he was ready. Lucius had died and he was only a day buried. Crowley swallowed down his wine in spite of himself, felt it hit his belly with an unpleasant jolt. Was he drunk? He could hardly tell. He hadn’t had much to drink since Lucius had allowed him wine as a boy. Now, each time his goblet emptied, someone came by and filled it. Crowley drank it all. Someone filled his goblet. Crowley drank it all again.

As he was about to down his sixth glass, a voice said in his ear, “Perhaps you’d like something to eat, your majesty.”

Crowley looked over. Madame Tracy was watching him carefully, and urging the glass back onto the table.

“I…”

“There’s a seat in the kitchens,” she said. “Chef would be more than happy to have you.”

“The kitchens.” She nodded. “_Yes_,” Crowley said. “I mean, if you...if you can get me out of here—”

Madame Tracy smiled, gave him a wink. “You just wait.” She disappeared again and, a few minutes later, there was a terrible clattering in the hall. Crowley saw every head turned toward the noise and took his chance, stumbling out of his chair. By the time he’d made it out of the dining hall, he was very, _very_ close to being sick.

“Easy, love.” Madame Tracy was at his side again. “Never seen the place so crowded before.”

“Never again,” Crowley muttered.

“Oh, you can’t mean that—”

“_Never again._”

She sighed. “It’s your home, your majesty.” She led him down the hall and toward the kitchen stares. Franny, the chef was waiting for him. She handed him a tankard of water and Crowley stood there, swaying on the spot, and drank it all. He pulled away, gasping.

“...Is there anything to eat?”

Later, Madame Tracy helped him up to his room and into a change of clothes. She reached up and took the crown from his head and went to place it in its usual spot — Lucius kept it on a stand close to the armoire, he had worn it nearly everyday — but Crowley stopped her.

“N-no,” he said.

“You’d like to keep it somewhere else?”

He shook his head. “Away. Just...just put it away.”

She hesitated. “But it’s...it’s your _crown,_ your Majesty.”

“I don’t care. And don’t call me that. Not...not you.” He looked at her, and remembered a young woman who, when Lucius had taken all his books, had let him keep one, and hadn’t told a soul.

Madame Tracy — why was that her name, why had the serving girls always called her that, why had Chef called her that, why did Sergeant Shadwell call her that and then flee — sighed, looking down at the thing in her hands. “...With the deed, then?” Crowley nodded. “Very well, sir.” She turned and went to the writing desk, pulling out a small wooden box, unlocking it with a key from her pocket, and placing the crown inside. “Only we know where it is.”

“Only us?”

“That’s right.”

Crowley nodded. “Okay. Okay, good.” He sat on the edge of the bed. Someone had put new sheets on it.

“Mr. Tyler says he’d be happy to make you new furniture, sir. If you’d like.”

“Talk about it in the morning,” he murmured, and let her pull back the blankets and urge him into bed.

“Of course, sir.” She pulled the sheets over him. “Rest well,” she murmured, and brushed the hair from his forehead. Crowley watched, drunk and bleary-eyed, as she blew out the candles and closed the door to his rooms behind him.

* * *

“You know, sir, if you wanted to entertain a bit more often, I certainly wouldn’t mind.”

Crowley glanced over at Madame Tracy and smiled. He’d asked her to take a walk with him through the rose garden, and she’d seemed delighted to have a break from training a few new servants. “You wouldn’t?”

“Certainly not!” She stopped and sniffed one of the new rose varieties Aziraphale had the gardening staff plant. “And Lord Aziraphale his _quite_ adept at hosting.”

“He has a talent for it.”

She sighed and they continued on. “It was nice,” she said, “to see you happy. Queen Esther is a lovely woman. And to see you in your _crown!_” She laughed. “You know, I thought I’d never lay eyes on it again.” She looked up. Crowley was wearing it today, at Aziraphale’s careful behest, and found he sort of..._liked_ it. Today, anyway. Crowley was quite sure his feelings would change within a day or so.

When they reached the end, they turned and walked the length again in comfortable silence. Crowley wanted to ask her something, and she could probably tell, but it was simply Madame Tracy’s way to wait for the question. She always knew, and she always understood.

After a few moments, Crowley stopped, reaching up to take the crown from his head and hold it carefully in his hands. “...Do I remind you of him?”

Madame Tracy sighed. “No,” she said. “Not at all.”

“When I wear this...you don’t see him?”

“I don’t.”

“When I talk, when I get angry, there’s no—”

“_Anthony._” She reached out and curled her hands over his. Crowley held his breath. “You are _nothing_ like him. I don’t know, all these years later, what I need to say so that you will understand that, but I saw it from the day of your coronation. You were always going to be different. You were _always_ going to be your own.”

“But sometimes, sometimes I feel like I can..._feel_ him.”

“Of course you can. He raised you.”

“_Raised_ me,” Crowley muttered. He pushed the crown into her hands and walked away. “Ridiculous.”

“You can argue the point all you’d like, but the point is he _did_,” she said, following after him. “Perhaps I disagreed with his methods. Perhaps I did my best to...to give you some softness.” Crowley glanced at her. She used to bring him cakes. She remembered his birthday. She learned from the woman who’d come before her to navigate his uncle’s mood swings, to love Crowley in careful ways Lucius wouldn’t see.

“But you are _not_ him,” she said. “And if you won’t listen to me, perhaps Aziraphale could tell you—”

“He does,” Crowley snapped. “But he didn’t _know_ Lucius. He only knows me. You knew my uncle, and you knew the South when it was still his. If I _ever_ speak like him, behave like him, I trust that you will tell me, _correct_ me.”

Madame Tracy put a hand out to stop him and pulled him close. She reached up, placed the crown on his head, and kissed his cheek.

“You are _good_,” she said. “And you deserve goodness.” She turned and kept walking, leaving him behind. Crowley swallowed thickly and watched her. He felt young and small again in the wake of her kindness.

Above and behind him, he heard the balcony door open and looked up to find Aziraphale leaning against the edge, smiling down.

“Enjoying the view, angel?”

“Oh, _very_ much.”

Crowley moved closer. “Toss down your hair, then?”

“Why don’t you serenade me?” Aziraphale asked. “I promise not to make fun of your voice this time.”

“Ha! I don’t believe you.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Why don’t you come up, my love? We can have lunch.”

“Do you promise I can ravage you properly when we’re done?”

“I swear that you may.”

“Wonderful.” Crowley grinned and turned to go back inside.

Perhaps the crown was heavy, just a moment ago. Now, it was light. Tomorrow, he might order to have it melted down — Aziraphale would never forgive him.

But Madame Tracy told him he deserved goodness. Aziraphale said the same thing. Crowley couldn’t always agree, he couldn’t always _see it._

For now, though — he would take it. He would take what he could get. He would wear this crown and bear this legacy. No one else could and, if he didn’t no one else would.

It wasn’t so bad, he reasoned, once you got used to the weight.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @ weatheredlaw


End file.
